


The Shadows and Monsters

by winnow



Series: Bigger Than a Body [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a Good Boyfriend, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Flashbacks, Future Fic, Kidnapped Stiles, Lydia is a BAMF, M/M, Magic, Melissa don't got time for your bullshit, Mythology References, Other, Stiles is stressed the hell out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8623639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnow/pseuds/winnow
Summary: “How,” he starts and then swallows against his raw throat. “How did I do that? How am I able to do this now? After all this time.” Deaton says nothing. He stares at the boy from the wall.“Tell me!” Stiles cries, tears spilling down his cheeks.“Oh Stiles,” he whispers, “You always could.” Deaton looks out the window again, the distortion making the world a nightmarish caricature. “And now, they know it too.”





	1. The Hallways, They Echoed and Groaned

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Here is part 2 of [Bigger Than a Body and Sweeter Than Gold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2672978). This is not a stand-alone piece, I'm sorry. I tried to write it that way, it sounded really contrived, I gave up and let the story do what it wanted to do. I realize that it's a bit er... shrill in the beginning but there is totally a reason for that. And I promise it calms the hell down (or at least becomes much less shrill) further in.
> 
> Please let me know if I missed something in the tags. They also will be updated as the story progresses. 
> 
> Chapter titles are from Halsey's "Control". 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading :-)

“Sooooo,” Lydia drawls, her mouth making a perfect O as she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms and legs. “You guys spent the last five days getting chased by a pack of werewolves from New York that was actually hired by Peter Hale to draw out Derek so Peter could use him as bait to steal the flame of life from THIS guy who just happens to be Mother. Fucking. _Peng_.” 

She stands abruptly. “Stiles had eight broken fingers, Isaac had a shoulder broken in two places and still has a concussion -in case you didn’t notice his mismatched pupils, all of you almost died several times and even though you’ve spent the last two days healing up with Deaton at no point during any of this did ANY of you think to call me?”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth few times but nothing comes out. Scott shifts from foot to foot. Isaac stares blankly at the wall. Derek stares at Stiles. Alex smiles at Lydia. Kira lounges on the couch and mumbles, “whatever Lydia, _you_ left me with my mom.” Lydia makes an annoyed noise with her mouth. 

“It’s not like I don’t think you guys can’t _handle_ yourselves. This wouldn’t be such a big deal except for the fact that the last I heard you were just stuck in a stupid _tree_ , when really you were in _mortal danger_. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been here for _five days_ wondering why I’m nonstop _screaming!_ ” Lydia stomps her foot on the last word of her tirade. 

“It’s a good thing we sound proofed this apartment so the wail isn’t as loud, otherwise my neighbors would be deaf.”

Stiles winces, “Lydia, oh my god, I am so sorry. Everything just happened so fast-”

“Does ‘everything’ and ‘so fast’ include getting your bone on with Derek?” 

Lydia steps around her desk to stand in front of the boys. “Next time there’s a life-threatening ordeal going on, please check your phones. I called and texted each of you about 80 times.” 

Scott opens his mouth to speak but Lydia raises a hand, effectively ending the conversation. He dejectedly walks to the couch and stands before Kira, who is able to stay angry for a total of 8 seconds before allowing him to sit down with her and hug him. He kisses her cheek after she whispers “I’m glad you guys are ok.”

Lydia makes her way over to Alex, looks him up and down, and lifts her eyebrows in a show of approval. 

“Hero of the hour, I hear.” 

“A shared title,” Alex says, still grinning. 

“And modest, too.”

“Just honest,” he concedes. 

“Did you kill Peter Hale?”

“I very much wanted to.” 

“So?” Lydia says and quickly turns away, “Everyone who’s ever met him has ‘wanted to’.”

Alex leans toward Stiles and whispers “this is the card with the banshee on it, yes?” 

“Uh. Yeah…”

Alex leans away making a responsive sound that Stiles can’t parse as positive or negative.

Lydia addresses them all again, “Since you’ve been with Deaton I’m going to assume then that all bodies have been taken care of and you all have done damage control. Did anyone talk to Satomi to see if this extended beyond our pack?”

Derek perks up then and Stiles listens to him and Scott fill in the rest of the gaps for Lydia. Scott’s never been known for his intelligence but the smartest thing he ever did was make Lydia his second. She has the kind of tenacity and a big picture mentality to keep all their heads above water when Scott tries to drown them all in idealism.

While the management has a meeting and Isaac lets his brain heal, Stiles motions for Alex to come with him to the other side of the room. 

“You uh, you mentioned at the house…” Stiles begins, scratching his chin nervously, and then he stalls out knowing the wolves in the room will hear him. Alex slowly raises his eyebrows and waits. 

“You said you and my mom uh. Hung out with Deaton.” And then Stiles mumbles something else into his hand. 

“Speak, Stiles.” 

Stiles throws his hands up, “Deaton dated my-my uncle?”

Alex tilts his head and then nods, “Ahh. You did not know he favored men.” 

“Yeah well um …no. But that’s not the issue. The operative words here are ‘my uncle’. Are we talking figuratively? Like a really good friend of the fam or like my mom’s cousin that she was really close to or something? Because I don’t have any uncles.”

Alex lifts the side of his mouth into a small smile, “but you do.”

“Stiles.” Derek motions him over to where he, Lydia, and Scott have congregated. Stiles makes an exasperated flail in Alex’s direction and walks over. 

“Lydia’s made a good point about us bringing the Argents in on this,” Scott says. “Especially since Chris already had dealings with Ivan’s pack. We don’t know if Ivan was working with Peter too and we need to find out.”

Stiles nods through the conversation but only half listens. Instead he’s thinking about the telephone conversation he needs to have with his father about this “uncle”. 

***

It is day two of project _Oh My Fuck We Need to Fix the House Before Dad and Melissa Get Back from Their Honeymoon_ and all is surprisingly well on that front. The scorch marks have been scraped and painted over, the beams for the roof are in, Stiles’ replacement bedroom furniture has been ordered with 2 day priority shipping, and the house finally stopped reeking of burnt everything (the smell was really fucking with Derek and airing out the house was at the top of every version of Stiles’ To Do list). The happy couple will be returning in six days, which is thankfully two days more than he needs according to the contractor. Derek, despite the smell, has come over both days to ~~intimidate~~ make sure the contract workers stay on schedule. In fact, the whole Stilinski House Reboot is thanks to Derek and his bottomless pit of insurance money that Stiles is recognizing Derek really does not like to spend on himself.

But that is a scab to pick at later. Right now, he needs answers about his mom and this mystery uncle. 

After staring at his phone for a good fifteen minutes, Stiles realizes that he can’t call his dad about this. Bringing up his mom during his father’s honeymoon is a dick move, no matter how seemingly important this is. It’s been six years of non-stop hell. Dad and Melissa deserve at least these two weeks of, well, not that. 

Stiles pockets his phone and hops in the jeep. Ten minutes later he’s pulling up at the vet clinic. He hasn’t really thought about what he’s going to ask Deaton, just that he might go into a berserker rage if Deaton pulls his typical enigmatic non-answer answers about this. He stops at the door and takes a couple of breaths then reels back in terror as Alex’s upside down face comes into focus. He absolutely does not scream (it was more of loud squeak). 

Alex, who was perched on the lip of the building like a goddamn bat, flips right side up and sort of _drifts_ to the ground. 

“Stiles.”

“Jesu- I had an actual heart attack. Thanks. Thank you for that.” 

“You’re welcome,” Alex says and saunters over to where Stiles is standing. “I thought you could use some assistance. You’re here to question Alan about your family, yes?” 

“Forever weird that you call him Alan but yeah. I figured he could give me some answers. Feel free to chime in with some info yourself, especially if you’re gonna be my hypeman in this.” 

Alex nods assent and they enter the clinic together. Deaton, for all his omniscience, seems surprised to see them, though not nearly as surprised as when he laid eyes on Alex two days ago. It was the first time Stiles had ever seen the man lose his composure. When Alex entered the room, Deaton dropped the glass jar of herbs he was carrying, narrowed his eyes, and breathed out a deeply accusatory “ _you_.” Something bright and shiny appeared in the vet’s right hand as he advanced. Stiles almost wishes Derek hadn’t stepped between them and yelled “we’ve got it all worked out now!” Thanks to the darach, they only have an inkling of the power an emissary has. It would have been informative to see if Deaton could hold his own against someone who’s considered a god. It was telling that he seemed to think he could. 

“Stiles,” the doctor says, turning back to the feisty cat on the examination table, “what brings you here?” 

Stiles notes how Deaton intentionally disregards Alex’s presence. 

“I need to talk to you about my mom …and my uncle.” 

Deaton goes very still. There’s a pop of bright blue light under his hands. The cat looks up at the vet suddenly, makes a sad little meow, and then goes limp. It’s creepy as all hell. Usually Stiles gives very few fucks about whether it’s the right time to say something but the tension in the examination room is too thick to cut with a machete. He has an overwhelming suspicion that saying the wrong thing right now might find him in a similar yet possibly more painful state as that poor kitty, so he fidgets in his spot but keeps his mouth shut. After a long moment, Deaton picks up the cat and puts it in a kennel. He spends an inordinate amount of time making sure the animal is comfortable. When he turns toward them again it’s Stiles’ turn to be snubbed by the doctor. 

Deaton levels a murderous glare at Alex, “You. Have no right. To speak to him of such things.”

Alex nods, “Yes. So why have _you_ not done it?”

“That is none of your concern!” Deaton slams a hand down on the counter, splitting the granite top from lip to backsplash. That’s second time he’s lost his chill. Maybe Alex being here is a bad idea…

Stiles steps forward, “Look, obviously, you two have an old beef. My unsolicited advice is that you guys get that sorted out AFTER one of you answers my questions. Deaton, you know I’m not here to make trouble for you. I just …I just need to know.” 

Deaton’s icy stare remains on Alex for another moment while he mumbles something and taps the counter repeatedly. As he taps, the granite hems itself back together. His eyes slide to Stiles. His zen-like calm returns.

“He leaves. Then we’ll talk.” 

Deaton turns back to the wall of kennels. 

_Fuck_ , Stiles thinks as he rounds on Alex. “Dude. Get the hell out of here.”


	2. And I Tried To Hold These Secrets Inside Me

Stiles considers his life choices while waiting in Deaton’s office. Was it wise to send Alex – someone who also has intimate knowledge of his mother, her past, her powers, and her people – away at Deaton’s request? Probably not. And he seriously did not look happy about it either, while slowly turning and even more slowly walking out of the clinic, only to blow the door closed so hard the glass cracked before Deaton raised a languid hand and mended it. Stiles is sure he can do damage control with him later. Right now though, he’s got Deaton on a leash and he wants to walk this dog as long as possible. 

The older man enters the room. He takes a seat behind his big wooden desk, sighs heavily, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Stiles,” he says calmly, though he looks a bit wrecked, “the first thing you must learn is that it is dangerous to speak of the f- of certain entities with carelessness or entreat. There is power in a name, even a general one.”

“If this is my Hagrid moment and you’re telling me I’m a wizard and my uncle is Voldemort-”

“This is not a joke.”

“I’m …not actually joking,” Stiles says and furrows his brow. “Considering what Alex told me, my mom had mad magic skills. When I was sixteen, YOU told me I was a ‘spark’. Now you’re talking about He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“Those,” Deaton says. 

“What?” 

“Those who must not be named. It’s not just your uncle, Stiles. It’s that entire side of your family. Your mother…” Deaton presses his lips into a thin, grim line. He leans back in his chair and gazes out the window. 

“We were close. I made a promise to her. An oath. I will not break it, Stiles. Not even for you.”

Stiles scrubs a hand down his face in frustration and shakes his head. 

“You _fucking_ liar,” he murmurs and chuckles mirthlessly. “You always do this.” 

Stiles stares at Deaton’s profile. _Six years of this_ , he thinks as he watches the man swallow, blink, inhale and exhale. Deaton’s calm in the face of Stiles’ frustration is maddening. It’s a match to the kindling of anger Stiles has apparently been stockpiling in the pit of his stomach, where it roars to life and quickly spreads throughout his entire body. 

Stiles kicks the desk and pushes to a stand, surprising even himself. “This is some bullshit!” he booms. “You promised her to, what? Keep me in the dark so you could watch me die like Derek’s entire family who you ALSO made some promises to? Your oath is more important than giving me information so I can make informed decisions that will probably save a bunch of lives, mine included! You really think that’s what she wanted?” 

He leans forward and thrusts a finger in Deaton’s face, “You always do this. You always find a way to weasel out of telling us anything fucking viable. You said we would talk if he left. Well he left and NOW it’s this crap about oath breaking and power in names. You said we would talk. **So talk**.” 

“I am telling you everything I can, Stiles.” 

“YOU’RE TELLING ME THAT YOU CAN’T TELL ME ANYTHING AND I’M TIRED OF IT!” 

Deaton’s eyes go wide. He pushes himself away from the desk and quickly stands against the wall. The desk rattles against the floor then bows in on itself as if the wood is melting. 

“Stiles…” Deaton tries but the boy isn’t listening. His hands are clutched in his hair, his eyes are closed, and he’s grunting loudly. The books on the shelves above Deaton’s head turn to blobs and then evaporate. The glass of the window warbles inward.

“Stiles, please don’t.” 

Stiles spins away from the Deaton and the melting desk to fall on his knees in the middle of the room. He yells into the floor as the room brightens around him in a burst of white light. Deaton holds out a hand and makes a complicated gesture with it. 

“Stiles! Stop!”

The light pulses once and is gone. The desk and window harden into their new warped shapes. Stiles is left gasping on the floor. 

“How,” he starts and then swallows against his raw throat. “How did I do that? How am I able to do this now? After all this time.” 

Deaton says nothing. He stares at the boy from the wall.

“Tell me!” Stiles cries, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Oh Stiles,” he whispers, “You always could.” 

Deaton looks out the window again, the distortion making the world a nightmarish caricature. “And now, they know it too.”

***

Stiles leaves the clinic with the intent of never returning. He’s had his fill of Deaton and his empty promises and inscrutable ridiculously ill-timed small doses of knowledge. If that dickhead vet won’t tell him anything, then Alex will. 

Derek’s waiting on the porch when Stiles pulls into the driveway. Before he can even get out of the Jeep, Derek stands and makes worried eyebrows in his direction. 

“You smell really pissed off,” he says pulling Stiles into a hug as they walk up the porch steps and sit. “What happened?”

Stiles takes a moment to listen to the roofers banging away overhead. He picks at the chipping paint on the porch stairs, tosses the flakes into the yard. “Deaton.”

“Mm.” Derek threads their fingers together. He rubs his thumb over Stiles’ palm and waits for the inevitable verbal flood. 

“Apparently I’m not allowed to know anything about my mom or her side of the family and therefore, myself, because -get this- they’re dangerous.” Stiles waggles his fingers in the air for emphasis. “Like the shit I’ve faced thus far was just kids stuff. Just a series of low-level bosses or something. Let me fucking tell you, that ogre three years ago was not a low-level boss. It was stealing children to -for …for prurient reasons. I was not ready for that shit but I handled it. Just like I handled this clusterfuck with Alex. I mean, I don’t wanna get conceited but pretty much my job around here is to figure out the thing and how to fix it. Not that Scott always listens to that. He usually has some side hustle going but regardless; we’re dealing with gods and shit now. That’s a fucking level up if there ever was one. How in the hell could I not be ready for whatever I’m fucking HALF of?” 

Derek leans in and bumps Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m sure it’s frustrating,” he says and kisses Stiles behind the ear. “The fae are very powerful, though.” 

Stiles whips his head around and stares at Derek. “Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. You knew my mom.” 

Derek blinks, confused by Stiles’ sudden urgency. “I didn’t know her intimately but she was our emissary--”

“Oh. My fucking. God!” Stiles pulls his hand away and stands. “You knew her! You knew about her and you never said anything to me!” 

“What? Stiles, what would I have said?”

“How about ‘hey Stiles did you know your moms was working with my moms for like a hunnerd years and was a goddamn faerie so that makes you half faerie and probably explains why you’re a spark and also you might have powers that could help us with all these fuckin monsters that keep vacationing up in here’!” 

Derek’s eyes are huge. “You didn’t know.” 

Stiles wants to scream. He knows if he does he’ll light that kindling in the pit of his stomach again and he doesn’t want that. It was terrifying losing control in Deaton’s office, particularly because he didn’t even know he *could* lose control like that. Also, he can hear that the roofers have stopped their banging and are listening in, as are the neighbors on both sides of the house who he’s already lied to about the construction; “renovations are a wedding present for my dad. I’d reeeeally appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to him about it. Like, _ever_.” He wants to scream. Instead he balls up his fists and growls at Derek through gritted teeth, “Did you not hear anything I said while Alex was burning down my house? How the FUCK would I know that?” 

Derek blinks again, looking confused and strangely empathetic. He reaches out to Stiles, “Baby, I’m so sorry. I just assumed… Why wouldn’t your mother tell you _that_?”

At Derek’s sincerity, Stiles deflates like a balloon. He stares at the man he loves, completely lost. “I don’t know,” he breathes and then bursts into tears.


	3. All the Kids Cried Out, "Please Stop, You're Scaring Me"

Stiles doesn’t want to think about faeries anymore. He doesn’t want to think about magic that burns through your guts like acid or druids that clam up at inopportune times or werewolves who can smell the not-human parts of you but happily assume you know that shit is there. His dad is coming home today. The house is fixed, there are currently no monsters rampaging through the city, and his dad is coming home with his new awesome wife who has been more of a mother to him than his own, apparently. 

Melissa sent a text that they’d be home by 7pm and it’s now 6:45. Scott’s at the window keeping watch, practically vibrating off the carpet from anticipation. Kira and Isaac are setting out the food. Lydia and Derek are hanging the banner. In an attempt to win an award for the Most Avoidant Motherfucker Ever, Stiles has thrown himself into planning a welcome home party for their parents. He gave every member of the pack a ridiculously complicated task so he’d have to keep himself busy by following up with them about it. He’s eaten his Adderall like candy and now they’re all gone until the end of the month when he can get a refill on the script. He’s been supplementing with massive amounts of caffeine and rationing the ten tabs of 20mg Ritalin he bought off a 15-year-old drug dealer downtown. He’s told Alex to make himself scarce until he can talk to his dad about …jesus, he doesn’t even know where to start. The point is Stiles doesn’t want Alex around his dad yet. Maybe not ever. 

Scott turns toward the room and hollers, “they’re coming!” Everyone takes their places behind furniture and tables and doorways. Melissa’s sedan pulls into the driveway. Behind the couch, Stiles grins at Scott who starts to smile then wrinkles his nose. “Gross. They’re kissing.” 

The newlyweds finally make it up the porch and into the house. 

“WELCOME HOME!!” 

Melissa lets out an “oh!” and immediately starts laughing. The sheriff doesn’t jump but he does reach behind himself for what Stiles is sure is some kind of firearm until he realizes it’s his own damn family yelling at him. Melissa takes his arm, gives him a knowing smirk, and pulls him into the living room. 

The first two hours of the party are perfect. There are hugs and stories and food and booze. Both of them are tan and look well-rested and happy. Around 9:30 Stiles starts to put away the perishables because his mind is wandering into dangerous territories. His dad follows him into the kitchen. 

“Need some help, kiddo?” 

Stiles smiles at his father, “Nah, I got this. You want another beer, though?” 

The sheriff smiles softly at his son. He puts his beer on the table and leans onto the counter. “Ok. What happened?”

Stiles sputters, “What? What do you – nothing. Nothing happ- why are you? What kind of reaction is that? I asked a simple question, Dad.”

The laugh that follows sounds fake even to him. To distract his father from the obvious, Stiles plugs the sink and turns on the tap. He chuckles again while haphazardly throwing in any dish within reach. 

“Did the dishwasher break, son?” 

Stiles hangs his head and braces his hands against the edge of the sink. He shuts off the water. “No,” he says quietly and then sighs. 

The sheriff leans in closer, “Look, if this is about Derek, I saw that coming years ago. You don’t have to worry about that.” 

Stiles laughs down into the dishwater. “That’s …actually pretty awesome and I’m really glad you said that but no, Dad. It’s not about Derek.”

The sheriff smiles again, “then my next guess is that it has something to do with why we have a new roof and three new windows and that young man hiding 30 feet up in one of our trees.” 

Stiles looks up at his dad. He runs to the kitchen window and hisses, “I tell him to stay away and he just hides out in the goddamn bushes?” 

“Stiles.” The sheriff puts a hand on his son’s shoulder and turns the boy back to face him. “What. Happened.”

Stiles swallows hard but manages to keep his father’s gaze. “I found out about Mom.” 

The sheriff takes a step back. He closes his eyes and mumbles, “Aw shit.”

***

Stiles takes a moment to process his father’s reaction. This is not the reaction he anticipated. This is not any one of the 30 or 40 possible reactions he fucking played out in his mind in excruciating detail, repetitively, for the last half a week. 

He stares unblinking at his father, “whatthefuckdoyoumeanawshit?”

Stiles’ lip is twitching and his jaw is starting to hurt from all the clenching he’s doing and there’s that hot coal in his stomach again. 

“What the FUCK. Do you mean. Aw shit.”

His father raises a placating hand and speaks in low tones, “Son, this is sensitive family business. Why don’t we talk about it after the party, okay?”

“No Dad no let’s talk about it now why don’t we just talk about it now Dad since you know exactly what it is we need to talk about let’s just do the deed and talk about it now like adults or some shit.”

Stiles is aware that he’s starting to sound insane. But he _feels_ insane. He feels like whatever train of reality he’s been on for the last 20 years has suddenly switched track and is happily chugging along to a fiery ravine in the deepest pit of hell. And the worst part is that everyone around him knew that’s where the train went in the first place, they just **didn’t tell him**. 

Stiles reaches forward and grabs a handful of his father’s shirt. The hot coal in his stomach is more of a baseball now but he’s ignoring that so he can concentrate on not needing to choke a bitch. 

“You tell me,” he says through his teeth as Derek creeps into the kitchen behind him, “you tell me you’re talking about some fucking affair Mom had or some goddamn indelicate financial dealings that were in her name or something innocuous like ‘oh Stiles’,” he says going into falsetto, “’your mother was really cremated and has been in my sock drawer this entire time!’ You tell me that and not that you knew what she really was and pretended not to know about werewolves and kanima and fire gods. You tell me that! Tell me you didn’t get fired and kidnapped and that I didn’t lie to you and beat myself up about it for two fucking years for nothing!” 

“Stiles,” Derek says gently. Behind him everyone is staring into the kitchen with their mouths hanging open. Melissa is the first to move. She ushers everyone else out saying “thank you so much for the party”, “the food was delicious” and “it’s all fun and games ‘til it’s time to go home.” 

“Stiles,” Derek tries again. “Put down your father.”

With an awareness that comes to him like waking from sleep, Stiles realizes that his dad’s feet are no longer on the ground, that the refrigerator is melting into the wall, that the kitchen table looks like something out of a Dali painting. The heat in his stomach is a molten soccer ball. His dad has his hands wrapped around where Stiles is grabbing him, not trying to remove Stiles’ fists but just touching them. The warmth of his fingers seeps through the fire coursing through Stiles’ body. 

Stiles slowly lowers his father to the ground. “Oh my god, Dad. Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

Stiles tries to back away but the sheriff wraps his arms around his son and hugs, shushing into the boy’s hair. They end up curled around each other on the floor, rocking back and forth. The sheriff coos “it’s okay, it’s all right” while Stiles sobs in his arms. 

Derek stands idle in the middle of the kitchen watching father and son until Melissa takes his arm and leads him into the living room. She sits him down on the couch, hands him a bottle of water and says, like a woman who does not have the time nor patience for bullshit, “Start talking.”


	4. I Jumped At the Slightest of Sounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~My dudes, the sheriff's name still wants to be Paul so I'm not gonna mess with it anymore. Last chapter was a workout of how many different ways I could *not* say his name and I just don't have the patience for that. Forgive me, fandom.~~
> 
> edit 1/18/17:  
> Ok well now we know it's Noah *pursed lips*. I knew it wasn't John because even though it's biblical (seriously, Jeff Davis has a thing for biblical names), it's not exotic enough and too many of us wanted it to be that and Jeff Davis takes delight in not giving the fandom what it wants. Whatever. I hate that. Imma just stick with "Sheriff". Also I am FOREVER smug about getting Stiles' actual name right.

Stiles falls asleep in his father’s arms. Derek carries him to his bedroom, gets him tucked in just as the sheriff peeks his head into the room. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch-”

“Nonsense. We’re all adults here. If you’re going to be with my son, then you’re going to be there for him and tonight, he needs you close.” 

Derek smiles at the ground and nods. The sheriff’s gaze lingers on Stiles before he sighs a goodnight and closes the door. 

Derek strips to his boxers, shuts off the light, and climbs in bed with Stiles. He presses his lips to back of Stiles’ neck and spoons in close. 

“I know you’re not asleep anymore. Do you want to talk?”

Stiles heaves a sigh and opens his eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“In _were_ culture, what you’re going through now is called Presenting. For those of us born into _were_ families, it happens around puberty. You start to beta shift. You get more strength, your senses heighten. If you have a propensity that will start to show, too.”

“A propensity?”

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. “Like a special gift. Deucalion has a propensity for energy extraction, which unfortunately he used to suck the power out of people… Satomi has a propensity for speed. Lori Talbot has a propensity for language, human and other.” 

“Does every wolf have that?”

“Mm, most of us have something we can do well even if it doesn’t qualify as a propensity.” 

Stiles turns to look in Derek’s eyes, “What’s yours?”

Derek shrugs, “Losing fights?” 

Stiles snorts, “No, seriously.” 

Derek shrugs again, “Dating homicidal lesbians?” 

“Derek.”

He huffs a laugh. “I honestly don’t know, Stiles. It takes a few years to figure it out. It was something my dad was helping me with. Before the fire.” 

The two men grow quiet while Stiles lets everything Derek has said sink in. 

“I think,” Stiles starts to say and then turns over fully to face Derek. He runs a hand down Derek’s chest and looks into his eyes, “that your propensity is Perseverance.” He kisses Derek gently, nuzzles into his neck. “And if it’s not that then it’s definitely Hotness.”

Derek gives him a blinding smile in return. “I love you.”

***

Stiles is dreaming. He knows he’s dreaming and he knows the weird thing about dreams is that sometimes you can dream while you know you’re dreaming and still be dreaming a dream about dreaming. In this dream though, he’s dreaming a dream about a forest he knows exists only it doesn’t. It feels like all the trees and flowers are upside down and all the birds and insect sounds are backward, but they aren’t. It’s lush and wet and the air is thick with something Stiles knows is familiar, knows it in his bones, but can’t identify. 

When he first started dreaming this dream of a dream, the sun was up but now it’s starting to set and the air is thinning and the shadows are alive and have teeth. The warm and gentle breeze has become more of a hot breath and a shove. Stiles knows he’s supposed to go to the clearing with all the yellow flowers but he doesn’t want to because he can’t find Derek and his dad is somewhere off to the right crying. 

He goes anyway. He enters the clearing and gasps because the flowers are a shade of yellow he’s never seen before. He reaches down to touch them and immediately realizes that’s a mistake because now there’s a shadow over his back and if he stands up it will bite him with its razor teeth. But it’s willing him. It’s willing him to look at it, look at it, look at it and when he does it’s nothing but swirling purple eyes and bright white light and Stiles is crying and clutching at the ground because it’s leaning toward him and it’s going to bite him he just knows it but all it does is shriek. 

“ **MIECZYSŁAW!** ” 

 

Stiles jerks awake, pulse racing and covered in sweat. Every muscle in his body is tense and he feels like someone kicked him squarely in the chest. He has no idea what he was dreaming only that he knows he was dreaming and it was Fucked. Up. 

He looks at the clock and sees it’s ten after nine. He’s alone in bed. Derek is likely out for a morning run, his dad and Melissa back to work. The house is eerily quiet. He throws back the covers to get out of bed but freezes when he sees what comes tumbling from between the fingers of both his hands. 

Flowers. Dead flowers. 

Stiles slaps the rest of the petals and stems out of his palms and jumps from the bed like it’s on fire. He hears someone bound up the stairs but before he has time to freak out about who it might be, Derek throws open the door. 

“Are you all right? Your heartbeat is-“

Stiles cuts Derek off by grabbing his hands and rushing down the stairs. “We have to get out of here. Right now.” 

“Wait. Stiles, what’s going on?” 

“I don’t know,” he says pulling open the coat closet. “but we need to leave.” 

“Just. Wait, tell me what happened.”

“We have to go!” he yells while pulling on shoes and grabbing a random flannel off a hook. 

“Go where!” Derek yells back. He grabs Stiles by the shoulders and looks him in the eye. “Go where?” Derek says, calmer. 

Stiles stares at Derek just long enough to get his hysteria to wind down. “I don’t …I don’t know. God Derek I’m so scared right now. I don’t even know what I’m scared of but I’m so scared.” He folds himself into Derek’s arms. 

“I had this crazy dream and somehow I made dead flowers, like, poop themselves out of my hands.” Derek snorts but then remembers himself. 

“It’s not funny!” Stiles shouts pulling away enough to look the other man in the face. But Derek is biting his lips and Stiles can’t help but be amused at Derek’s attempt at not laughing. “It’s not funny,” he says with much less heat. 

Derek’s eyebrows pull together and he twists his mouth to the left trying to stave off the grin that’s pretty much already fully formed there. 

“You’re laughing at me.” 

“I’m not,” Derek counters quickly but Stiles is nodding at him. 

“Yeah you are.”

“No,” Derek blurts and bites his lips again. “But. But you said…” and he makes the eyebrow face again. 

“I said I made my hands poop flowers. You are laughing at my dead fauna dookie finger abilities.” 

Derek loses it. 

Stiles watches him laugh and smiles to himself. “How does your laughter make me feel better?” He plants a kiss on Derek’s collarbone and rests his chin there. 

“Seriously,” Derek murmurs into Stiles’ hair, “are you all right?” 

Stiles circles his arms around Derek’s waist and turns his head so they are essentially hugging. They sway like that for a good while. 

“I am now.”


	5. I'm Crying, "They're Coming for Me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers, i apologize profusely for taking a year to work on this again but lordy lordy, did life kick me in the balls. 
> 
> i have two chapters finished now and a goodly amount of time on my hands now that i'm done with school so hopefully, fingers-toes-eyes crossed, i'll have this finished by the end of the year. 
> 
> i **sincerely appreciate** everyone who's stuck around to see this story through and everyone who's left kudos and comments. Those are a writer's multivitamin, ya know? Keeps our writin' bones strong and our eyes clear. 
> 
> Really. Thank you. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy the rest of the fic :-)

Through a window, Alex watches Stiles and Derek hug for a few minutes before heaving a sigh and gliding from the tree into their side yard. He turns away from the house and heads back toward the Preserve on foot. Stiles was adamant that Alex keep his distance, at least until they were able to talk to his father about recent happenings. Alex has the distinct impression the boy thinks some harm will come to his father by his mere presence. 

"He's not entirely wrong," Alex murmurs to himself, crossing the street. It's then he sees Lydia walking across a parking lot to her car. He's able to watch her unawares for only a moment while she loads groceries and gets in. Then she's looking right through him. There's a moment of tense staring between them before Lydia hooks a finger motioning for him to come over to her. She pops open her passenger side door. After peering inside the vehicle for a long second, Alex gets in the car. He looks strangely uncomfortable. 

"Did you get sex-iled by Stiles and Derek?" she asks, smirk playing across her lips.

Alex looks around. He lifts his legs then puts them back down. "I don't know what that means," he says, then squirms in the seat. 

Lydia watches him touch the dashboard, poke the radio, smooth a hand over the gearshift, then a lightbulb goes off in her brain. "Have you ever been in a car before?" she asks, as he raises and lowers his legs again. 

Alex finds a lever on the side of the seat and gently pulls it up. The seat goes flying backward and he goes with it, feet kicking up to hit the bottom of the dash.

"No."

Lydia tsks. "You were only gone what, 12 years. There were _cars_ the last time you were here."

"Yes, and I did not get in them because I can _fly_. There were no cars to get in where I went, either."

She leans over Alex to pull the lever and sit him upright. "Where were you all that time?" 

"Harā Bərəzaitī, contemplating the likelihood of certain painful death to millions should I throw myself in Damāvand. Obviously, I did not do that. I slept a long while and ate too much Gaokerena instead."

Lydia blinks up at him from his lap. "You were suicidal on a volcanic mountain in Iran napping and getting drunk on death nectar…for 12 years?" 

"…Yes."

She doesn't move back to her own seat immediately. Instead, she hms, reaches across his body and pulls on the seatbelt, buckling him in. 

"Are you holding me hostage," he says into her ear while she does this. 

She raises an eyebrow, "Would I need to?" 

"Not at all." 

Lydia huffs after returning herself to her seat. "Ok, TMI aside, what exactly are you doing out here if Stiles and Derek didn't kick you out of the house?" 

"Is that what sex-iled means? Hm. No, Stiles prefers I keep my distance because he is afraid I will kill his father."

Lydia gives him a bug-eyed look, " _Why_ would he think you would do that?"

"I wouldn't. He is afraid I will because I was in love with his mother." 

Lydia makes another incredulous face. She turns to stare out the windshield with wide eyes. "So. The gods really do mess around with humans. I wonder what else the boys failed to mention yesterday." 

"His mother wasn't human."

Lydia spins toward him, " _What?!_ What is she? Does Stiles know this?"

"She is of the fair folk. Like you." Alex shrugs, "He does now."

She rocks back in her seat. "Stiles is half banshee? This is – I did NOT see this coming."

"Well," Alex clears his throat, "no, he is mostly human, though I recall there being relation to banshee Queen Clíodhna on his mother's side... At any rate, Claudia was much more akin to a pixie-elf."

Lydia stares out the windshield again and breathes "Holy shit."

Alex gives her a moment to process, and then he quietly states, "They also failed to mention that you are stunning." 

For a moment, she thinks about smiling because being complimented by a mythological god is sort of a big deal. But Lydia stopped selling herself short back in high school. She let go of the misguided need to be seen as "pretty" and nothing else. She let that notion rot and die in whatever hole Jackson ended up in. At 21, she is only a semester away from her goddamn graduate degree, having finished her undergrad in record time with a GPA so high the university broke tradition and awarded her the _egregia cum laude_ distinction. Lydia is a bad ass in every sense of the word and compliments on her looks are not going to get it these days. 

"If you'd been paying attention you'd know that I'm more than just a symmetrical face. Aside from my brain, I'm Scott's second, a formidable banshee, and I know three forms of martial art."

Alex smirks, "All right." 

"And if you tell me that Stiles is scared you're going to do something, then despite the fact that _you_ told it to me, I'm going to suspect you, too."

"That makes sense."

"AND, your 'I'm incredibly amenable to everything' act will get old really fast, as well. You want things. Not just the obvious thing you're wanting right now but you're after something. Eventually, you'll have to say what that thing is. Your flirt game is cute but you're gonna have to do better than that."

"Noted," Alex says, still smirking, and Lydia thinks that's the end of the conversation. She reaches to start the car and hears, "However." and shifts her eyes in Alex's direction. 

"I said you were stunning. As in, 'impressive', 'astonishing', 'spectacular'. But if you would like it to simply mean 'pretty'…" he shrugs, leans back in the seat.

Lydia puts the car in gear and chuckles to herself, "Better."

 

***

 

After he and Stiles move the melted dining table and fridge to the backyard, Derek offers to buy new ones. The sheriff hems and haws about it but Derek insists. 

"I'm basically living here. Please let me contribute." Stiles politely doesn’t say anything about the roof and windows Derek’s already paid for.

The sheriff nods, pats Derek on the shoulder and thanks him. Before Derek leaves for the appliances, he gives Stiles a pointed look and motions his head toward the man in the kitchen. 

"Talk to him," he says and slips out the door. 

Stiles busies himself by making another pot of coffee while his dad sets up a card table and chairs, then putters around pretending to tidy up. Stiles smiles mischievously at him while walking over cinnamon rolls and two steaming cups to the card table. 

“So…” Stiles says and drums his fingers on the table top. His father gives him a knowing look. 

“You must really mean business if you’re giving me carbs.” 

Stiles chuckles, “Definitely buttering you up, yeah.” They sit in awkward silence for a moment until the older man sighs.

“Look, Stiles, you gotta know that I really wasn’t aware of werewolves or kitsunes or the rest of it before you told me. I only knew what your mom said about herself and how she told me to deal with her family. They didn’t approve of anything she was trying to do with her life, least of all me. By the time you were born, your mom didn’t want anything to do with any of them. I met a few of them after she passed. They were, uh, not nice people. But back then, I was happy that strange time in our lives had ended. I never thought twenty years later…” the sheriff reaches across the table to snag a bit of cinnamon roll. 

"Your mom was only close to her father. I never met him, he died about a year after you were born, but from what she told me, he was a good, kind man. He was …like her. You know."

"That's just it, I _don't_ know, Dad. I don't know anything really. Nothing of substance. I know Mom could do magic. That she worked with Derek's mom. And that her family were apparently assholes about it and that they …they might have –" 

Stiles swallows hard thinking about what Alex said only a week before. _Do you know that story, Stiles? Of how they stripped her of half her power? Of how they tore her in two and left her diseased and defeated?_

Stiles shakes the thought away. "Somehow all that equates to me being able to melt stuff, but who knows what else I can do? I need you to tell me things. Everything."

Sadness colors his father’s expression for a moment before he sighs again, "Your mom, she was …so exotic, not just in the way she looked but the way she talked, where she was from, the way she dealt with her patients. For a long time I thought maybe she was raised as some kind of ultra-Old-World-Mennonite because she called her family the "Fair Folk" but there was definitely some distinction between her mother's kind and her father's. I know her father was Polish, like me. Her mother was Irish. And your mom talked about her dad like he was different somehow. I'm sorry, son, I really never understood it and I believe she wanted it that way, so I didn't press her.”

Stiles nods silently while thinking of all the magical ways his mother might have made his father compliant. He shakes that thought away, too.

The sheriff continues, “She said her father taught her almost everything she knew about medicine, way beyond what she learned in school. He taught her about our way of life. He also taught her there was nothing wrong with going against the grain if it meant you were helping others. She always had this wild conspiracy theory about her dad; that her mother somehow had something to do with his death.” He shakes his head. “I think that might have been one of her first delusions. Certainly, one of the most persistent.”

Stiles doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the heart to tell his father that, apparently, that mentality got her killed too. Instead, he asks, “Is that why you guys named me after him?” 

His dad squints a bit, “I guess so. Like I said, she was very close to him but that name has been in her father’s family for generations. She always said that was the name you were destined to have but she was kind of, how do you kids say it these days? She was ‘salty’ about it? Heh. She’d say 'that's his name, but it's not who he is.' Her father and his father and his father, they never went by that name either. She told me her dad was called Eryk. She’d nicknamed you Stiles before you were even born. I never felt the need to fight her about it. _Stiles_ suits you. I liked it, liked it more once we got a look at you. The only time she ever called you by your given name was when …when it was bad.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says and tries to tamp down the memories of his mother’s last few months of life, of her running from him in fear, accusing him of trying to hurt her and his dad, cursing at him in made up languages, calling him _that_ name. 

His father reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. “Much better things to think about now.”

“Yeah, like why neither of you ever bothered to mention any of this to me.”

The sheriff finishes his cup of coffee and leans back in his chair, “Kid, believe me when I tell you that your mother was very restrained with me. I'd only seen her do a few hinky things a handful of times. Only much later did I realize that it could have been actual magic. The things she did around me, she made it seem like science. Like I said, she painted her family to be in some kind of cult, not supernatural beings. She taught me how to say specific things to them in specific situations. When they got handsy with you at her funeral, I said the things she taught me to say and they reacted the way she said they would. It was all very ritualistic and they never bothered us again. When she died, I truly believed all that went with her." He raises his hands in the air in a “what are you gonna do” gesture then leans forward and smirks at his son. 

“Your mom, she had her own customs, though. After you were born, she wouldn’t let anyone see you for the longest time. Not my mother, not her mother, not our friends. Said it was bad luck. But when you were about six weeks old, I came home early from the station and found you and your mother in a staring contest. Couldn’t hold up your own head but you were looking into her eyes with such …intent. I stood back and watched you both stare for a good few minutes before she shook herself and kissed your cheek. Then she said, with more Irish lilt than I’d heard from her in a long while, ‘Well. Grand. That’ll do, I guess.’ The next day she asked me to invite my mom and dad to meet you.”

“But what did she mean by that?” 

“She never gave me details and honestly, I probably wouldn’t have understood them if she had. I did ask her what that had been about and she told me ‘no worries’. That was that.”

The sheriff leans back in his chair again. “Or so I thought.”

Stiles reaches across the table and squeezes his father’s hand. “I know I said some things, but I don't blame you, Dad. Please don’t blame yourself. All of this is uncharted territory. No one would have known the right thing to do. No one but her, I guess.”

The sheriff squeezes back and shakes his head, “No, I should have told you when you came clean with me about Scott. I just didn't want to believe the two were related. I thought you were so young and had plenty enough on your plate.” He stands to put his cup in the sink and chances a glance out the kitchen window. Stiles considers his own cup and thinks he’ll have another. His father is still staring out the window as he rises to get it. Chuckling to himself, he taps his dad on the shoulder playfully chiding “you see a squirrel out there or something,” but the man doesn’t move. 

“Dad. Dad?” 

The sheriff takes his gun from its holster and releases the safety, eyes still on the window. “Stiles, stay in the house.” 

“Dad, if it’s that long legged guy in the trees, he's not-"

“No,” he says in his most severe cop voice.

“Dad, what’s out there?” 

He turns and looks Stiles in the eye, “Just this once, just this once boy, listen to me. No matter what happens. Stay. In. The house. Promise me.”

“You’re scaring me, Dad.”

“Good. Promise.”

“I – I promise. Tell me what’s out there.”

The sheriff doesn’t answer. He turns and heads for the front door with purpose. He turns the knob lock before closing the door behind him, effectively locking Stiles inside. Stiles stands in the front window, phone in his hand to text Scott for back-up but what’s going on outside is confusing. 

It seems like a pall has fallen over just them. It is still day but there is no sun, no light. Like their property is swathed in grey. There’s a man in a very expensive looking dark blue suit standing on the sidewalk in front of their house. He’s straddling a sidewalk block with his head cocked to the side and his hands loosely tucked into his pockets. His hair is platinum blond and immaculately coifed. His facial features are clean, angular lines. Handsome. In fact, the man is _very_ handsome but he looks like he knows it. It’s a quality that Jackson had and while it probably means he’s a douchebag, it doesn’t make him any less good-looking. As Stiles takes him in, he can’t help but feel like there’s something jarringly familiar about this man. Something in the set of his eyes, the turn of his jaw, the length of his neck. 

His dad takes the porch stairs slowly. He has his gun positioned near his thigh, where the man can see it but no one else looking on can. As the sheriff crosses the yard, the man begins to smile. Until then, Stiles couldn’t figure out what was so threatening about him, at least, not enough to make his dad pull his gun. The man obviously has no weapons and he looks like an open-handed slap might break one of his perfect cheekbones. Until that smile. Once the man spreads his mouth, there's no question: he is definitely, definitely threatening.

The sheriff stops about three feet away from their visitor and says, again in his most authoritative cop voice, “You are not welcome here. There are no deals to be made. No gifts have been offered. Please go.”

The man continues to grin and to Stiles’ completely surprise, simply steps around his father into the next sidewalk block to continue looking at the house. The way he moves is strange, unearthly. Like he's in water. He reaches into one of his tailored pockets and pulls out a cell phone. Stiles watches him quickly open the camera app, _take a selfie of himself and the back of his father’s head_ , and chuckle as he slides the phone back into his pocket. His father sways to the side and takes three steps backward so that he’s in front of the man again. 

“I said you’re not welcome here.” He leans forward then and murmurs, “You think I don’t know who you are? I remember you, _Nicolai_. I remember you perfectly well. State your purpose plainly.”

At the mention of his name, the man moves in that wading-in-water way, and Stiles thinks he’s going to step around his father again. Instead, he leans in close. He’s looking at the sheriff's face, everywhere but his eyes, with complete disgust. When he leans back, the man looks up toward the window and locks eyes with Stiles. 

"I have come," the man says in a smooth, quiet voice, though Stiles can hear him as if he's standing in the room, right beside him, "for my sword."

Stiles tries to look away but can't. He is frozen in this man's stare. From the window, he can tell how angry his father is just by his posture. The gun by his thigh twitches and his jaw is clenched. 

“There's nothing of yours here. No one called for you. Please leave.” 

The man, still gaze-locked with Stiles, lifts his right hand and places it limply in the air around the middle of the sheriff's chest. 

"You're wrong," he says and brings his fingers together to flick the sheriff in the sternum. He expends barely any effort but the tiny movement pushes him back several feet and almost knocks the sheriff on his ass. The sheriff rights himself and gets back in the smiling man’s face. 

“Please lea-”

 _Flick._ The sheriff takes a knee for a moment before getting up again. Before he can open his mouth, _flick_. 

“Stay down.” 

This time the sheriff rises slowly with his gun pointed at the man's head. 

"That's right, keep backing me up however you like, you'll only be able to get so far. This house is warded in several ways, specifically against you." 

"It was…" the man says in his smooth whispery voice. He grins again. "Not anymore." 

At that, Stiles wants to cry. Partly because from his living room window, he has just watched this man assault his father several times and he can't do anything about it. He can't move, can't look away. His phone feels like a two-ton brick in his hand when he thinks about calling for help. He's positive this guy is manipulating his body with that icy stare. But mostly Stiles wants to cry because he knows that the man is right; the house is no longer warded. He knows exactly which wards his father is referring to, only he didn't realize they were wards at the time. 

While replacing the roof they'd found that the ceiling joists were made of iron. The contractor was confused as to where someone would even get iron like that, let alone build the top of a house with it. They ripped it all out. They laughed about the weirdness of it together. Somewhere in the back of Stiles’ mind, he knew iron was a magic deterrent. Thinking on it now, this was likely how his mother kept herself from doing magic in the house. And, he realizes much too late, that it was likely what kept him from doing it, too.

As this man, who clearly wants to harm him and his father, stands in front of them grinning about their newfound lack of protection against him, something else comes back to Stiles. At the time, Stiles didn’t quite know what to make of it, certainly not something to do with magic. He thought it was probably a design aesthetic but in light of this new information, he was obviously wrong. Because carefully nailed to each end of each joist in the roof was a _horseshoe_. Horseshoes, if used against say, the Fae, would ward against specific types of malevolence. That type of barrier would protect the entire house and probably spread even to the yard, given the amount and their placement. And he …he'd just thrown it away. He'd laughed at what he thought was some architect’s idiosyncrasy and probably just cost them their lives.

In an attempt to beg for anything other than an inevitable painful death, Stiles stands in the window vigorously shaking his head at the man, who only narrows his eyes in response. In his mind, Stiles hears the man's murmuring voice call _Mieczysław_ and just like that, the nightmare from that morning comes roaring back in startling detail. The bright mass that stood over him, nebulous purple eyes boring into his back as it willed him to look up. Stiles gasps at the flood of memory. His body pitches forward into the window with a dull bang. It feels like he's trying to push himself through the glass. Stiles grunts loudly as he tries to regain control of his body but it continues to betray him, trying fruitlessly to answer the man's call.

The sheriff hears Stiles against the window and presses the muzzle of his gun to Nicolai's head. 

"Whatever you're doing to him, stop." He cocks the pistol. "Now."

For the first time, the man maneuvers his gaze to look the sheriff in the eye. "Do you really believe that will stop me?"

"No," sheriff says plainly and plants his feet, "but it will slow you down and it will hurt like a bitch."

Nicolai stares at the sheriff for a long moment. He nods. He looks back at Stiles pressed against the glass so hard his nose is bleeding. In the same susurrus voice, he says _Osłonę._

Stiles' body relaxes. He rears away from the window a few inches and looks on in horror as the man wraps a long fingered hand around the back of his father's neck and leans forward. 

"Point that thing at me again and I will make you eat it." 

"Noted," says the sheriff, "but you need to recognize that with or without it, you still can't have my boy."

The man turns his languid eyes back on Stiles and whispers in a sinister and condescending way, "He's already mine."

Then he's gone. The darkness over the house has disappeared. Scott, Isaac, and Derek are pulling up into the driveway, smiling until they see the blood on the window and the sheriff's startled face.


End file.
